


A Glass Half Empty

by NeonFox



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hell, au - canon, canon character death, depictions of torture, s3 ep 16 No Rest for the Wicked
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 02:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeonFox/pseuds/NeonFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a crossroads deal, you sell your soul - not your body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sam watched in helpless fury as the smoke that was Lilith poured from Ruby's body's mouth and vanished into the house's ventilation system. He clenched his fists, head bowed, fighting for control. He could feel the tears starting, but he couldn't make himself turn; when he turned, he'd see Dean—Dean's body. If he could not look, for just another moment, it wouldn't be _real_ yet...

And behind him, someone gasped and coughed.

Sam whirled. Dean was _moving_ , struggling up onto his elbows and looking down at himself in confusion.

“Dean,” Sam said. “Dean!” He lunged, half-falling at his brother's side. He was almost afraid to touch him, fearful of aggravating the wounds the hellhounds had inflicted...except those wounds were gone; though Dean's shirt and jeans were in bloody tatters, the skin beneath that Sam could see was whole. There were crisscrossing scars, livid against Dean's skin, but they looked _healed_ , months old at least.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean said mildly. “I thought I was so dead.”

“Oh, God, Dean,” Sam said, his voice thick with tears of relief. He pulled his brother into a hug.

After a moment, Dean returned it. 

* * *

He can't see the ground. He can't see any boundaries. Everything is a void, filled with chains, and some of them pierce him, pain radiating from those points in overlapping waves. 

“Help!” he calls, the sound of his voice torn away by the wailing of the wind that howls through the void. “No! Somebody help me!” He knows he sounds pathetic, and he doesn't care; it's more than he can stand already.

“ _Sam!_ ” Dean screams, but there's no answer.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam wasn’t sure how long they sat there before he managed to form a thought that wasn’t _Dean’s not dead_.  When one did come he tried very hard to ignore it, because it was telling him he had to check, had to be _sure_.

Eventually the nagging voice of caution got to be too much and he let Dean go.  “OK, you know I’ve got to do this,” he said, his voice shaking.  “Christo.”  Dean’s eyes stayed clear.  Something in Sam’s chest let loose a little.

“Don’t have a silver knife on me,” Dean said.  He sounded completely understanding.  “I think Bobby does.”

“I do,” Sam said, and unsheathed it.  It was a very small blade, but he’d carried it since Saint Louis.  Dean, looking faintly amused, held out one hand and Sam nicked him.  The blood welled up red and normal, with no sizzling.  “Way to be prepared,” Dean said as Sam tucked the little knife back into place.

“Thanks,” Sam said shakily.  The adrenaline rush of the fight was starting to ebb and he felt faintly sick, like he always did.  “What the hell just happened?” he asked.

“No clue,” Dean said, sounding entirely too brisk for a man whose guts had been leaking out not five minutes earlier.  “But this ain’t the place to wonder about it.  We gotta find Bobby and book.”  He got easily to his feet.  “Come on, Sam, up and at ‘em.”

Sam, still on the floor, looked up at his brother.  He was too damn tired to be incredulous, but he tried to convey disbelief anyway.

Dean rolled his eyes.  “We don’t have all night,” he said firmly, and held out a hand.  Sam took it and stood up.

* * *

They ran into Bobby, almost literally, just outside the door of the pleasant suburban home Lilith had taken over for her little game.  The older hunter’s eyes widened at the sight of Dean.

“What in the hell happened to you?” he asked bluntly.  Dean shrugged.

“No idea.  One second the dogs were chowing down, next they were gone.  I didn’t see what happened with Lilith, though.  We gotta worry about the rest of the demons?”

“No,” Bobby said warily.  “They all dropped their meatsuits and ran about ten minutes ago.  Dean, what—“

“Sam can fill you in.  I gotta get something to wear that’s not in shreds.”  Dean strode off in the direction of the cars.  Sam and Bobby watched him go, and then Bobby turned to meet Sam’s eyes.

“What the hell,” he said flatly.  Sam was starting to think that phrase was going to be a staple for the next little while.

“Lilith took over Ruby’s body,” Sam said, feeling like he ought to have more answers than he did.  “She set the hounds on Dean and tried to kill me, but she couldn’t affect me.”  Bobby’s eyes got a little wide, and Sam nodded at him.  “Trust me, I know.  I went to stab her with the knife, and she ditched the body and ran.  And then…Dean, he just.  Woke up.”

“Sam…” Bobby said, sounding like he was trying to break something gently.

“I tested him with silver, he’s not a revenant,” Sam said a little desperately.  “His eyes didn’t change when I said _Christo_.  I don’t know what happened, Bobby, but…assuming he can stand salt and holy water, I really think it’s him.”

After another second Bobby sighed.  “I got holy water in my car,” he said.  “Don’t know what we’re gonna do if it turns out he reacts to it.”

“He won’t,” Sam said.  Bobby eyed him sidelong but didn’t comment.

By the time they caught up to him, Dean had the Impala's trunk open and he was rummaging in his duffel bag, stripped to the waist.  Bobby sucked in a breath at his first good view of the scars, and Sam felt even sicker.  It looked like someone had drawn all over Dean’s abdomen with the kind of puffy paint that decorated small children’s sweatshirts, in purple and angry red.

Dean saw Bobby looking and said, “Look pretty nasty, don't they?  A couple of 'em pull a little, I'll have to get something to soften them up.”

“You wait right here,” Bobby said, and stamped towards his car.  Dean, pulling a t-shirt over his head, said indulgently, “He’s going to get salt, right?”

“Holy water,” Sam said.  He had never in his life felt so strongly that the other shoe was going to drop—any second now, Dean would attack or grow fangs or fall over dead or burst into flames or _something_ , because this was just too much good luck for Winchesters.  There had to be a catch.

“You better try salt too,” Dean said, sounding unconcerned.  “And I think there’s some Japanese thing that doesn’t like jade, but those guys are, like, purple or something so we’re probably good there.”

Sam surveyed his brother for a second.  “How are you not freaking out?” he asked bluntly.  “You spent a year scared out of your mind about this, and now it’s over and you’re not even breathing hard.”

Dean had one arm in a fresh overshirt, but he paused to think about it.  “I dunno,” he said at last.  “It just seems like…I’m OK.  You’re OK, Bobby’s OK.  What’s to get freaked _about_?  I mean we gotta look into it, make sure I’m not gonna start eating people or whatever, but…”  He trailed off and shrugged.  “Hurt like ever-loving _fuck_ while it was happening, though.  And I’m starving.”

Sam couldn’t help it; the laugh bubbled out of him like a poison he had to expel or die.  “Dean,” he gasped around it, “you’re always starving.”  Dean watched him, a little quizzical but smiling.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” he said, as Bobby came back, holy water flask in hand.

* * *

The first time they ask, he honestly doesn’t understand the question.  He’s too dazed, no room for thought under _hurts_ and _stop_ and _Sammy help me_.  They laugh when he just stares at them and shakes his head, more in confusion than refusal.  The leader, the one with the sparks of fire in its misshapen eyes, pats him on the cheek—Dean tries to flinch away, but he can’t move enough—and says comfortingly, “It’s all right, kiddo.  We’ll ask again tomorrow.”  Its smile is a horror and he’d close his eyes if he could.  “You’ll get it eventually.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dean insisted on stopping for food at the first open place they came to. Sam didn’t fight him; he knew from experience that not eating would just make the inevitable crash worse, and he found himself disinclined to deny Dean anything anyway. Bobby pulled into the parking lot behind them, and insisted that Dean step in and out of a small salt-circle before allowing him to enter the restaurant. Dean tolerated the check with remarkably good grace.

There was only one other occupied table in the place; without the buzz of conversation to cover them, they couldn’t discuss much besides logistics.

“No, Dean,” Sam said through gritted teeth. “We are not driving back to Bobby’s tonight. Not two hours ago you were _gutted_. We are getting a room so we can both get some rest.” It was an effort to keep his voice down.

“Sam, I’m telling you I’m fine to drive,” Dean said. “I wouldn’t risk my baby.”

“You may be fine now, but that ain’t gonna last and you know it,” Bobby put in. Sam nodded at him gratefully. “You’re gonna crash hard, son.”

For the first time Dean began to look faintly annoyed. “I feel fine,” he insisted. “Maybe being dead for a minute acts like sleeping. You two think I don’t know what a fight-high feels like?”

Sam closed his eyes and sighed. When he was sure he could do it without yelling, he said, “Look. It’s not like an extra eight or ten hours is going to make a difference, OK? We can’t go on another job till we’re sure you aren’t going to wig out, so what’s the rush?” Dean looked slightly mollified, and Sam played his trump card. “Besides, man, I’m dead on my feet. I need some sleep, and not in the passenger seat.” He didn’t add that he was scared of sleeping in the car anyway—too big a chance of waking up when Dean lost it and ran the car off the road.

Dean considered for a beat before folding. “Fine, but you’re paying,” he said.

“Whatever, jerk,” Sam said, but he met Bobby’s eyes across the table and saw relief there that matched his own.

* * *

Sam fell asleep thinking Dean's night was a toss-up: screaming nightmares, or sleep like unconsciousness for hours longer than usual. Or possibly the one followed by the other.

So when he woke mid-morning to discover Dean already dressed and sitting on the other bed with the laptop resting on his knees, he was a little nonplussed. His own sleep had been heavy, and he felt sodden with it; Dean looked...normal. Like this was any other morning.

His brother glanced at him and said, “Hey. Go get a shower, we should get back to Bobby's.” Dean went back to tapping at the laptop. Sam sat up and rubbed at his face with both hands. His t-shirt felt clammy with sweat. “Dude, go on. You reek,” Dean said.

“What...yeah, OK, what about you?” Sam asked, swinging his legs around till he was perched on the edge of the bed.

“Already took care of it,” Dean said, with a flash of a grin. “Now we're just waiting on your slow ass.”

“Not what I meant.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean's lips quirked in annoyance. “Go take a shower so we can get on the road.”

“Dean,” Sam began.

Dean's hands stilled on the keyboard and he turned to face Sam fully. “Sam. Go take a damn shower.” Sam raised an eyebrow at him and Dean rolled his eyes. “Fine! Fine, we will talk in the car, now will you get in the shower?”

Sam stood, but for a second just looked down at Dean. He was still waiting for the catch. Dean looked back with an expression of exaggerated patience until Sam turned to his duffel bag.

* * *

They packed up and checked out mostly in silence. Bobby had rapped on their door to let them know he was leaving not long after Sam woke; with the way Bobby drove — that being like a _sane_ person — they'd catch up with him, but they knew where he stashed the spare house key so it didn't matter if they hit Sioux Falls first.

Sam waited until they were solidly on their way before he said, “OK, we're in the car. We're going to talk now.” Dean groaned, though it sounded like his heart wasn't entirely in it and that made Sam hopeful. Maybe, for once, he'd get Dean to discuss something like a grownup. “I'm just...having a tough time believing that you're — I don't know, _over_ this.”

“I don't even know, Sam, OK?” Dean said. “I know you think I'm denying or repressing or whatever the crap is you think I'm doing, but I'm not. I spent a year being scared of this, and now I don't have to be scared anymore. It's over, and I'm not dead, and forgive me for being OK with that.” He sounded angry, but not very, and not in the way that meant he was using it as cover — more like he didn't even understand why Sam was worried, and wanted him to cut it out.

“I just want to be sure,” Sam said honestly. God knew, if anyone could stifle his reaction to trauma it was Dean, but Sam just kept seeing the way those claws had opened Dean's stomach, spilling pieces of him onto the nice hardwood floor of that house.

“Jesus. I'm sure,” Dean said. “Once we check I'm not gonna go all zombie, we need to track Lilith the hell down. I don't know about you, but I'm kind of not OK with her possessing little girls thing.”

Sam studied his brother's profile. Dean's face from this angle was as familiar as Sam's own hands. And from here, Dean looked fine. Great, even; some of the little lines the last year had worn into him were smoother now. “Just let me know,” he said.

“Whatever,” Dean said. “Get out a tape, I want music.”

* * *

At Bobby's they dropped their bags in the spare bedroom and dove into research. Dean said he'd checked online and found nothing useful; Sam unobtrusively ran some searches of his own and came up just as empty despite superior google-fu. So books it was.

Bobby had a hell of a lot of books. Any that concerned crossroads deals, of course, they'd gone over page by page while they were trying to get Dean out of his (or at least Sam and Bobby had; Dean had been too busy martyring himself, Sam thought). But as Dean had pointed out, they'd never heard of a crossroads deal ending this way, so it was time to cast the net a little wider.

They didn't come up with much. Three days of sneezing over dust-covered parchment later, they had a scattering of accounts in a collection of languages about people who'd been attacked by what sounded like hellhounds — invisible dogs, at least — and survived it, but they could find no common thread. None of the survivors had turned into monsters later, at least.

“This is the best I've got,” Sam said, gesturing at the book in front of him on Bobby's desk. “The wording's a little tough, this thing's like two hundred years old, but it sounds like the guy was attacked by hellhounds all right, growling and barking but no one could see them, smell of sulfur, the whole thing. They chased him into the woods, and an hour or two later he came back out. And here's the best part. Ten years earlier, he'd been the town drunk but he suddenly came into some money and cleaned up his act, and by the time the dogs showed up he was one of the most successful men in town.”

“That sounds like a crossroads deal,” Dean agreed from where he lounged on the couch.

“Anyway, after that he got kind of a rep for, uh, chasing girls. That was more of a big deal then, and he ended up run out of town completely.” Sam shrugged. “You already chase girls, so...I'm thinking we're clear.” It was surprising how much of a relief it was to say that aloud; even Bobby had mostly stopped watching Dean like he expected him to attack. “I mean, we still don't know why it happened, but I think we're good to get back out there.”

“Fantastic,” Dean said. He sat up and clapped his book closed. “I'm about to go out of my mind sitting around here. When Bobby gets back from town we'll ask him if he's got anything.” He stood, stretched a bit, and headed for the stairs, the book left carelessly on the couch.

Sam watched him go, bemused.

* * *

Alastair tells him when he's been in Hell a year. By then Dean's broken; he knows it perfectly well, though he can't make himself care. That would take energy, and he has to carefully husband his energy for the one act of defiance that matters.

“I don't get why you do this to yourself,” Alastair tells him thoughtfully one day a little later, his voice weaving and hissing sickeningly. “It's not like you'd be doing anything wrong. Everyone down here deserves to be.”

“I don't,” Dean says, greatly daring. It must be the false reassurance of his flesh reknitting, or maybe it's that Alastair doesn't have a blade right now.

Alastair's smile doesn't even make him wince anymore. “Oh, of course you do, Deano,” the demon says. He runs one claw down Dean's side, not even digging in. “You'll see when you say yes to me. But not today, hmmm? Today you said no.”

Dean closes his eyes and waits for the knife.


End file.
